


outside the box

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Vaginal Sex, grope box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Martin has had a really bad week, and Tim intends to help him relieve the stress. So what if it's a little unorthodox? It's going to begreat.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 7
Kudos: 110





	outside the box

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [thinking inside the box](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625643) by [gummies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gummies/pseuds/gummies). 



> So this is a remix (rewrite?) of **thinking inside the box** by gummies, but from the outside perspective as I could not stop thinking about that. It is a terribly fine balance of "not wanting to overstep" and also "not wanting to be a complete freeloader" – which I hope to have managed.

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Martin said for not the first time that evening, and that was before he knew about the capital-B Big Event which Tim had in mind. 

When Tim first had come with the suggestion of them going to the intended club, Martin had thrown his eyebrows up a little, apparently familiar with its seedy reputation and every bathroom being utter filth, which Tim thought was a small price to pay for the _energy_ of the place. 

Some of Martin’s anxiety must’ve rubbed off on him by the time they arrive though, because the dim red lights and the dirty rock playing on the speakers just for a second throw Tim off before he says, “C’mon, we’re already here,” and walks to the bar with the purpose of getting them both drunk. 

Tim considers himself something of a good samaritan in this case – Martin has had maybe the shittiest week at work he’d ever seen, and a good portion of it could be attributed to their boss having just a shitty a week and taking it out particularly hard on Martin. Martin, who has done nothing wrong except bring him drinks and ask if he’s doing alright – Martin, who then would leave Jon’s office looking like a kicked puppy, and then blame himself for it. 

Tim had had enough of it; there was only so much a man could take before taking matters into his own hands. They’re two-and-a-half beers deep and having to genuinely shout over the blaring guitar when Tim leans into Martin’s ear and says, “Told you I’d help you calm down, right?”

Martin’s eyes glitter slightly in the spotlight with uncertainty. “Yeah?”

Tim grinned and crooked his free arm into Martin’s, the other one busy holding a beer bottle, tugging him away from the small table they had been occupying and further into the bowels of the club. He _loves_ this feeling, the kind of fluttery anticipation-excitement-intoxication in his chest that is keen to appear every time he’s visited the VIP-area in the back. Of all rooms in the club, this one is probably the best kept for all customers sakes, and Tim can actually _feel_ the apprehension that begins to build in Martin’s body.

“Is this a BDSM-dungeon?” Martin whispered, like he was talking about something forbidden, and Tim stifled a giggle.

“Not far off,” he replied, cheekily adding, “you have a lot of dungeon experience?”

A man walks past them in the dark hallway, his face flushed and a strange kind of waddle to his steps. The moment he was out of hearing, Martin loudly spluttered, “Oh my _God!_ ”

Tim can’t help the laugh that rolls through him, steadying himself against Martin’s warm body as they keep walking towards the room and stop to brace themselves. Tim noted with not a small amount of pride that Martin hadn’t backed out, that whatever seedy sex thing he had imagined to be at the back room wasn’t enough to scare him off.

“All yours, Mr Blackwood,” Tim whispers in the sexiest voice he can manage two bevs in. 

“Oh, I can’t _believe_ you!” Martin hisses back in reply, opening the door and revealing a small room lit in a maroon color, dark enough that to a stranger the shapes within could be mistaken for almost anything.

Tim snort-laughs. “You can’t?”

“Ugh!” Martin hisses under his breath, arms all tight to his body like he’s trying to be inconspicuous. “This– this, oh my _god,_ Tim, when you told me you’d help me de-stress _this was not what I thought you meant!”_

Even though he can’t tell in the colored light, Tim imagines Martin’s face must be deeply red between the drink and his abashment. It’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen: Martin’s eyebrows are furrowed with desperation and his mouth keeps moving like he wants to argue further.

“In all seriousness,” Tim said with great wisdom, “I think this could help.”

“I _really_ can’t see how!” Martin squeaked out, and Tim comfortingly put a hand on his shoulder, noting he was burning hot to the touch. He squabbled back and forth for a while, mentioning Martin’s repression – between desk-work and wanks, the man is definitely going to get carpal tunnel – all while Martin nobly defended himself in high squeaks and few reasonable arguments.

“Exactly why you need to vent some frustration,” Tim concludes when Martin is done, and then for extra measure and because he knows how great effect it will have he adds, “Just because Jon loves to ride your dick doesn’t mean you can’t use it for anything else.”

It gains him exactly the reaction he wanted. Martin sputters out complete nonsense and almost chokes on his own spit in his hurry to say something, eyes wide and fists clenched, and Tim is just about to add another Jon-comment, when a muffled whimper suddenly comes from behind them.

For all the seediness of the club, they don’t just let anyone into the box-room. You need a clean bill of health for starters, and it’s really only for VIPs – a status Tim is proud to hold, and through which was able to finagle getting Martin in as well. 

The person in the box had their head hidden, showing only a lithe body glistening with sweat in the light, panting quietly so that their small chest heaved ever so slightly. Tim hadn’t really understood the sublimity of anonymity until he had visited similar clubs, that it could be anyone in there, splayed open and ready for anyone to fuck. It didn’t look like he and Martin were the first visitors, either.

“God, we shouldn’t even be talking about this right now,” Martin whispered, not taking his eyes off the grope-box or its contents. “There’s a person in there.”

“Not much of a person right now,” Tim said. Martin was visibly worked up, more than he’d ever seen him be, and Tim casually added, “Trust me, the kind of people who put themselves in there, they want to be treated like toys.”

The body gives a little tremble which definitely could be taken as encouragement.

“ _Jesus_ , Tim,” Martin reproached, but he didn’t argue. He wasn’t taking his eyes off them, the curve of their thighs, their stomach rising and falling rapidly and the small breasts moving along it. Tim himself felt a familiar warmth collect in his gut, his dick desperately trying to get up in spite of the fact he has never been able to have sex if he’s drunker than a sip of wine.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Tim told Martin with some comfort – can’t be pressuring the big guy – and then sultrily adds, “but if you _want_ to, that cunt’s not going to yell at you for misfiling papers.”

Martin’s lower lip catches in his teeth. “I– oh, fine. I guess it can’t hurt,” he murmurs at last, positioning himself between the person’s legs and taking in the sight. There’s a very clear tent in his trousers, and Tim is happy to play the audience as he sips at his own beer bottle.

Martin slips into a sort of trance as he began touching the stranger’s breasts, his large curiously placed hands on their small ribcage. For all the club’s faults, it _is_ gay-friendly and Tim doesn’t want to presume the gender of whoever might be in the box – there is however a decidedly masculine-sounding cry when Martin pinches their nipples and tugs hard enough for Tim to wince with sympathy. 

It was mesmerizing to watch – sweet, kind Martin with a face of plain focus as he squeezed the poor soul’s breasts, resulting in muffled sobs and cries of despair that went straight to Tim’s own cock. 

“Mean,” he commented, off-handedly stroking himself through his jeans.

“Oh, be quiet,” Martin mumbled, and then smiled slightly as he gave the _toy_ a pinch and they cried out and tried to thrash. “I think they may be gagged?”

Tim was inclined to agree, especially when Martin leaned in to suck at the stranger’s left nipple and an open-mouth whine came from inside the box. Martin worked the toy’s breasts methodically and with a casual air, like it was nothing more than work, completely ignoring the clear cries of despair and pleasure that although wordless got across their point. Their legs were trembling, thighs trying to close and pull Martin in but stopped by the straps.

When Martin was finally done with the stranger’s breasts, Tim noticed two things: the first was that there now were a series of hickeys and suckmarks over them both, meaning that they’d left their mark for the evening; the second thing was that the stranger’s cunt was _glistening_ wet from Martin’s torture.

“Slutty thing, huh?” Tim said darkly, squeezing himself through his pants. If not for the fact this evening was Martin’s evening, he would’ve fucked the person himself by now – never in his life could he have imagined Martin to be such a patient sadist, already so worked up from Jon riding his arse and still taking his sweet time before getting his own cock out. He was admiring his own handiwork, the stranger’s bruised breasts heaving with every gasp, not looking the slightest bit sorry about robbing them of their own pleasure. _Note to self; never let Martin top me ‘less I feel like dying_ , Tim thought, and then nonsensically chuckled to himself. 

“They’re really sensitive,” Martin observed wisely, kissing the stranger softly between their breasts. He kept his face there as he said, “Do you think they could orgasm like that? Just from their nipples?”

The stranger made a cry of obvious protest, thrashing the most they could in their bonds and flexing their hands in the only form of communication they had. This was apparently enough conviction for Martin to take mercy, – “Um, I think I’m gonna go ahead and fuck them now?” to which Tim said, “You have _my_ permission” – and moved in even closer as he began to fumble with his trousers. 

As Martin pulled himself out of his trousers, Tim let out a very genuinely impressed whistle. “You’re about to make someone’s night, mate.”

“Please shut up,” Martin hissed back, and just for two seconds his cool demeanor was gone and he looked very flustered at the compliment. He was _thick_ more than anything, glossy with sweat and pumping himself up slightly, already so impressively hard that Tim imagined he must’ve been straining something terrible in his trousers. 

Tim was very much doing so himself, continuing to rub himself through his jeans at the sight. _We should do this again sometime_ , he thought to himself, twitching in his pants at the thought of fucking someone right after Martin, sliding himself in along the other man’s come; or the opposite, Tim getting first dibs on whoever was in the grope-box that night and fucking them good and fast, and then letting Martin have his sloppy seconds. He felt faint at the very thought.

Martin stroked himself as he pushed two fingers inside the stranger, spreading them, and in response the stranger cried out and thrashed against the cuffs – Tim finds himself inclined to agree. Martin hummed affectionately, “Shh, it’s okay,” so intimate that Tim felt like he should look away. 

Martin began to stroke their clit, and when the grope box’ occupant came it wasn’t discrete in the slightest; they loudly cried out “Oh, oh, _oh!_ ” and tried to grind up in the air, shaking something fiercely and not stopping as Martin entered them and began to finally fuck in earnest.

Tim did let slip a hand under his trousers then, lightheaded with how hard his own cock was and with some desperation trying to lay every part of the scene to memory: after this he would have to congratulate Martin on giving him the hottest night of his life that didn’t involve him actually getting laid. Martin was _rough_ – he was a hefty man but there had never been any indicator for the strength he was showing, slamming into the stranger with enough force for their tits to bounce with each stroke. While Martin had his teeth in his bottom lip to keep quiet, the toy was not, crying out little _ah-ah-ah_ ’s in tandem with every thrust, certain moans coming a little close to sobs; it was like sweet fucking music.

“Fuck,” Martin said with a high voice that broke halfway through, his eyes cracked open and heavy lidded.

“How’s it feel?” Tim asked breathlessly, staring at where Martin’s cock pistoned in and out of the stranger’s wetness.

“S-soft,” Martin said, equally breathless, his hips not going still for a second, “ _good_ , really good.” He turned to the box where the stranger’s face was hidden, addressing them: “I’m– I think I’m going to finish soon, so, I hope you’re- ah! Good with that. _Fuck_.”

 _Soon_ turned out to be a slight understatement: the toy in the box moaned assent and that was it, Martin put his hands on their hips to steady himself as he buried himself balls-deep and groaned as he came. His not at all inconsiderable weight was pressing down on the stranger as he came back to his senses, not making any motion to pull out for what Tim estimated to be some five seconds.

When he _did_ pull out, the stranger made a high noise of downright misery, which was absurd as Tim couldn’t fathom whoever wouldn’t be satisfied after that spectacle. Martin frowned blearily, and then stood up alert.

“Oh– oh! Poor thing, one second,” he said and turned around, “Tim, wasn’t… wasn’t there a–”

“What? Oh, yeah, in the– there you go.”

Martin used one hand to tuck himself away and the other to rummage through the toy-box the room offered, whose contains apparently were too naughty to be said aloud by a man who had just fucked a complete stranger. He pulled out a dildo of indeterminable dark color, and then with a strange tenderness pressed it into the stranger’s cunt, looking away a little shyly from his own seed pouring out.

On the bottom of its flared ending there was a button, and Martin gave it a tentative press – immediately it began to buzz inside the stranger, who came _again_ (!) and shook against their restraints, a futile attempt as the toy dutifully kept vibrating inside them.

“Aw, that’s just plain mean,” Tim said with grinning pity, unable to stop himself from flicking the poor soul’s clit just once and getting a yip in return.

“What’s mean about helping them get off?” Martin said, his face made into picture perfect innocence with a light frown, while his eyes glittered with the full awareness of what he had done.

“Evil,” Tim replied, terrified and intrigued at what dreadful wonderful things Martin must be capable of. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I need another round.”

* * *

There was another round after that, and one more after that, but towards then the common sense that Tim usually kept locked up managed to creep out to and reminded them both that they weren’t in their early twenties anymore, and that they had work tomorrow. 

Tim’s hangover hit him like a freight train, while Martin’s took more of a slow crawl. When they met up on the tube, Martin only had a slight headache as opposed to Tim who was able to hear the bright-green color of the vests worn by the workers. 

Even then in spite of this he gestured for Martin to lean in so that Tim could whisper in his ear: “Aren’t your muscles _sore_ from last night, mate?”

Martin’s cheeks colored at that, looking away shyly. “My lower back aches a little,” he admitted sheepishly, and Tim shoved his shoulder with great affection; this was going to be a _great_ week.

The world seemed to agree with him. When he saw their shithead boss, Jon greeted him with a curt, “Morning, Tim,” and then scurried on with whatever spooky errand he was up to, not wasting any time with telling Tim to get to work. 

Tim had actually considered working in spite of his hangover-headache when Martin runs into the kitchen like a bat out of hell, wide eyed.

“Tim?” he said in a screeching high voice, holding onto his tea-cup for dear life. “Can I talk to you for a second? About last night?”

“Which part?” Tim asked, as though he doesn’t know _exactly_ what Martin is talking about.

Martin taps his cup with all fingers in sequence, shifting his weight from foot to food. “Well, you remember at the- the club? In the room? Do you- um,” he stammers and looks around as though there is anyone else in the kitchen who can hear them. “Who do you think it was in the box?”

Tim barely gets a chance to say that he thinks that’s private before Martin cried, “Oh for f- do you- do you think it could’ve been J-Jon?”

Tim spits coffee right back into his cup. “What? _Our_ Jon?”

“Yes!” Martin exclaimed. “I mean it’s absolute nonsense, obviously, but he made this– he made this noise just now and it sounded like– oh _God_ , it sounded a lot like them. But it couldn’t, right?”

“Of course not,” Tim said, thinking back to the evening and trying to view it from Martin’s perspective. The light had been dim and the red color had made it hard to make out a skin tone, and the person’s build hadn’t been the most distinctive. 

“Of course not,” Martin mumbleed in agreement, smiling nervously. “Because that would be ridiculous.”

“Now,” Tim admits very slowly, “I did bring him there once.”

Whatever calm Martin had managed to find vanishes from his face in an instant. “W-What do you mean?”

“I brought him to the club and I kind of showed him but it wasn’t his thing,” Tim says out of the corner of his mouth – did he really not bring that up last night? – “So we just had drinks and laughed about it. I thought he would’ve forgotten. I mean, still, it’s not like _Jon_ to do something like that.”

“Of course,” Martin affirms in a very high voice, addressing mostly himself. “It can’t have been, right? Right?”

**Author's Note:**

> haha sure martin
> 
> please check out the original work!


End file.
